Read Ebook: All's not Gold that Glitters; or The Young Californian by Haven Alice B Alice Bradley

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Ebook has 345 lines and 40547 words, and 7 pages

A noise that she would not have noticed in the stir of daylight, made her look up. It was only her boy's cap, which he had hung carelessly behind the door, falling from the nail. "How strong and well he is," thought the lonely woman--"why could not he go, and take care of his father?"

When she first tried to reason with herself about the future, he had seemed her only comfort and stay. Must she give him up too?

Mrs. Gilman did not often act from impulse, but she had become restless, and eager, thinking these things over. She took the candle, already burned to the very socket, hurried up the narrow winding stairs leading from the room in which she sat, to the "garret chamber," chosen by her boy as his winter sleeping room, for the greater convenience of disposing of and watching over his hoard of treasures. They were few enough, but invaluable to him. The ears of corn he had saved for parching, hung by their braided husks, the soft pine blocks, prepared for whittling,--his skates, his new sled, not yet trusted to the doorless barn, the pile of hickory nuts in the corner, were nearly all that he owned; but no money could have purchased him more valued possessions.

The boy was sleeping soundly after the day's hard work and exercise. His mother put down the light upon the chest that served him for a table, and sat down upon the bed beside him. He looked very beautiful to her, his long brown hair thrown back over the pillow, and his face flushed with a red glow of health. One arm was thrown above his head in a careless, graceful way, the brown hand bent, as if reaching to grasp a branch above him. Should she, who had held him in her arms, with the first prayerful thrill of a mother's love, innocent and pure, send him forth to contact with the world unshielded! To see vice, and perhaps crime in every form--to be the companion of those long familiar with it! But, surely, it was a sacred mission to watch over and care for an erring parent, perhaps to save him from still greater degradation. Would not God reward her for this loving sacrifice, by keeping him in the charge of all good angels!

Her strong faith trusted in this, as she knelt down, still watching his heaving chest, and laid her hand lightly in unconscious blessing upon his broad forehead. It may have been that blessing which bore him through strange trials and temptations. We know that those who ask "in faith," nothing wavering, have their reward; and what can exceed the yearning faithfulness of a mother's love?

"No, nothing is the matter, my son," Mrs. Gilman answered to the boy's start of surprise, and half frightened, half sleepy question. "I did not mean to wake you up, Sam, I came to see if you were asleep yet and quite comfortable. Are you sure you have clothes enough? It's going to be a very cold night."

"Plenty, mother,--it's just like you to be worried. I thought it must be morning first, or father was sick, or something. Good night," and he turned still drowsily to his pillow.

"Sam, did you know your father had concluded to go to California?"

"Goodness, mother!" and all sleepiness was gone in an instant, the boy sat up in bed, and looked at his mother eagerly.

"Yes, he has decided to go, and I've been thinking if it wouldn't be better for you to go along."

"Me?"

"I guess it's best, Sam. I don't see how I can spare you very well: but your father will need you more than we shall; we shall make out to get along somehow. You will be coming home some day with a fortune, like the young princes in the story books."

Mrs. Gilman tried to speak playfully, but it was hard work to keep down the sobs.

"It isn't like you, mother, to want me to leave you and the girls, just to make money. I've heard you say too many times, that you would be contented to live any way, so long as we could all be together, and work for each other. What put it into your mind?"

There was an earnest directness in the boy's manner Mrs. Gilman could not evade. She had never before alluded to her husband's weakness to one of his children. It was hard now, but it was right Sam should know all.

"You can remember, Sam, when we were all a great deal happier; before father took to going to the corner every day. You know how he comes home night after night, and how bad company has changed him. Bill Colcord has followed him every where, and has persuaded him into this. If father has you with him, he'll think of us oftener, and perhaps it will keep him from doing a great many things Colcord might lead him into. You are old enough to know what's right and what's wrong."

"I ought to, mother, when I've had you to tell me ever since I was a baby."

"Sometimes I forget till I am almost asleep," the boy confessed honestly. "But I don't sleep half so well, I think, or wake up so good-natured at any rate. When is father going--does he know you want me to?"

"Not yet, but we must not mind that--Colcord won't want you. Something tells me you ought to. Sam, I only want you to make me one promise. Never to touch a drop of any thing that could hurt you--you know what I mean, any spirit, and keep father from it as much as you can. You will, won't you?"

"I never tasted spirit yet, mother, and I never will, so long as I can remember to-night. I'll swear it on the Bible if you want me to."

GOING TO CALIFORNIA!

It is strange how soon the most startling things that happen to us, settle into a matter of course. Before another Saturday night the whole Gilman family thought and talked of "going to California," as if they had looked forward to it for a year. Sam contrived to gather more information about Cape Horn and the Pacific coast than he could have learned from a study of Olney's Geography all his life. As Mrs. Gilman expected, her husband's adviser made a determined opposition against taking a boy, and one as sharp-sighted as Sam Gilman particularly. But she was equally determined, and as Colcord knew she had it in her power to stop the sale of the farm, and cut off their means of going, he thought it best to give up. He concluded he should be able to manage both father and son after a while, and it might not be such a bad plan in the end.

Squire Merrill tried his best to dissuade Mr. Gilman, when he saw what was on foot. He even offered to lend him money to stock his farm, and get started again, but he could have had about as much influence on the wind. He proved himself to be a true friend, even though his advice was not taken.

Sam seemed to think a long face was expected from him, and tried to put on one every time the matter was talked over. He found this harder and harder, as the time came near. A journey to Boston was an event in the life of Ben Chase he had never quite recovered from. Ben Chase had seen the Bunker Hill Monument and the State House, with Washington's Statue, and, dear to a boy's heart, the Common, with its renowned Frog Pond, which he never would own, even to himself, had disappointed him. Ben Chase talked of Boston Harbor, and like all boys brought up out of sight of salt water, thought of all things in the world he should like to be a sailor. He had even contemplated running away and persuading Sam Gilman to go with him. But Ben was a deacon's son, and heard "honor thy father and mother" read out of the big family Bible very often. He had compunctious visitings the next day after concocting this notable scheme, at family prayers, and quite repented of it when he saw his father go round with the collection plate, the Sunday after. Now all his enthusiasm revived. He looked up to Sam quite as much as Sam expected or desired, when he found they were going "round the Horn." He favored him with many decidedly original suggestions, always prefaced with--"I'll tell you what, Sam," and read over in the retirement of the barn chamber his limited collection of voyages and travels, burning with a renewed desire to

"Walk the waters like a thing of life,"

as he poetically termed staggering across a ship's deck. Sam sometimes felt a little uncertainty about his positive happiness in leaving home, when he saw how sorry Julia Chase looked; but Ben's conversation had quite an opposite effect on his spirits. Julia presented him with a heart-shaped pincushion, made out of the pieces of her new hood, as a keepsake. Ben deliberated among his accumulated stores a long time, and finally decided on the big hickory bow and arrow he was making with a great deal of care and skill. "It would be so useful if you was cast away on a desert island, you know," he said.

Julia and Ben came over on Saturday afternoon to bring their presents, and some dried apples from Mrs. Chase to Mrs. Gilman. The last were prefaced by the apology that "she didn't know but Mrs. Gilman's must be most out." Many a useful gift had come from the same quarter, prompted by equal kindness, and offered with the same natural delicacy. "Neighbors" in New England, mean more than living near a person. The rule of the Samaritan is taken rather than the Levite's, and certainly good wishes and kind acts were as "oil and wine" to Mrs. Gilman of late, however trifling they might seem in themselves.

The children passed a greater part of the afternoon in the garret chamber, which being directly over the kitchen, was warm and comfortable. Sam's clothes were to go in his father's chest--"a real sea-chest"--as he told Ben, but he was to have a box of his own besides. Packing this box was the excitement of the afternoon, as it included a distribution of that part of Sam's treasures, he found it impossible to accommodate. One particular red ear of corn presented to Julia Chase, made a great deal of amusement; some speckled bird's eggs, and the principal curiosity of his museum, a carved elephant's tooth, brought home by some sailor uncle or cousin of his mother's, completed her share of the spoils. The sled was presented to Ben, and Abby and Hannah shared the remainder, feeling far richer than many a grown up legatee does in receiving a bequest of thousands. An animated conversation was kept up, Julia bringing forward a fact in history that had troubled her very much for the past few days. Her class were studying Goodrich's United States for the first time, and she remembered that when the English settled at Jamestown they discovered earth containing a great quantity of shining particles which were supposed to be gold by the colonists. She sympathized very heartily with them in their disappointment, when they found their ship loads sent to England turned out worthless, and she had become quite anxious on Sam's account. What if after all the California gold should end in the same way! Hannah and Abby were very much agitated for a while with this startling historical inference, but Ben did not hesitate to say, "girls were fools, they knew nothing and never did;" while Sam gave such remarkable anecdotes and facts, that they were reassured, and all grew merry and good-natured again.

For the first time in many Sundays, Mr. Gilman went with his wife and family to meeting. His new rough great coat and respectable hat made him seem like another man. But he did not like the sermon at all, and considered it as meant for him. It was rather singular that the text should be--

Sam, who had persuaded his mother to let him sit in the gallery with Ben, became much more attentive than usual. The new minister evidently had the California adventure in his mind, though he only spoke of the feeling extending all over the country; the sudden haste to get rich, and the willingness people showed to leave their families and their homes to go in search of golden treasure. He said if they would make half as many sacrifices to lay up treasure in heaven, they would be thought to have lost their senses, and ridiculed on every side; yet there was no comparison between the worth and value of the two.

Ben on the contrary thought the sermon very long and tiresome, and amused himself by carving on the seat what he fondly called a ship, working most industriously with one eye on his father's pew, to see when he was unobserved. Ben certainly never could have supported existence without a knife, and though it was only a jack-knife, and not a very elegant one at that, it was surprising what a number of things he managed to do with it.

Perhaps she felt the certainty of this as he sat near her, shading his eyes with his hand; for her voice grew clearer and stronger as she sang--

Ye fearful souls fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread, Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense But trust him for his grace-- Behind a frowning Providence He hides a smiling face.

Oh, these calm, thoughtful Sunday evenings in a New England home, where the strict, and it may be rigid rule of our forefathers, is still preserved! What a blessed memory they are, in after years, to the toil-worn and world-wearied heart! The dear circle gathered in the fire-light, one clasping a mother's hand--the youngest nestling in a father's arms!--the long quiet talk of pleasant and holy things--the wonderful Bible stories of Joseph and his brethren, Moses in the bulrushes, and the destruction of Pharaoh's host--the old-fashioned hymns, led by a dear mother's voice, in which all strive to join; the simple melodies, and the pious words sinking unconsciously into the memory! Who would exchange these recollections for the indulgence of carpeted nurseries, a servant's twice-told tales of ghost or goblin, the muttered sleepy prayer at her knee, when another Sunday is over, a day of idle play, or marked only by a careful toilette for the dinner company who were expected, and engross the time and thoughts of worldly parents in the drawing-room? We may be mistaken, after all, about the privileges which the children of the rich enjoy.

Actually saying "good-bye," is hardly ever as hard as we expect it will be, or the loneliness afterwards proves. The next morning found Mr. Gilman as confident as ever, and bustling around with great alacrity, to be ready in time for the stage. His wife did not allow herself to think. She had her breakfast to prepare--though Abby was the only one of the party that seemed to need it--and many things to see to at the last moment. Wherever she was, and whatever occupied her hands, her eyes and her heart followed Sam, who felt all the excitement of departure. His father had been so little comfort or company lately, that it would be easier to be accustomed to his absence. Sam she had depended on--his willing, cheerful readiness to assist her, the frank honesty that never deceived, young as he was, had filled up a great void in her heart. His very voice, and step, were music and lightness.--Do all she could the tears could not be kept back, but filled her eyes, and almost blinded her, as she went about her morning work. And then the time came--her husband kissing her hurriedly and nervously as the toiling horses came in sight, her boy not ashamed to cling to her neck, while she wrapped her arms around him, as if he had been still the baby in her bosom, and kissed him in an agony of love, and fear, and blessing. They were gone, and the house, no longer her home, was empty and desolate, and her straining eyes could not catch another glimpse of that bright boyish face.

All day long Mrs. Gilman busied herself with strange haste, and unnecessary care. It seemed as if she dreaded to have her hands unemployed for a moment. The children forgetting their tears, as children will, played, and worked, and disputed, but she scarcely seemed to notice them. It seemed to her as if death, not absence, had removed her son.

SETTING SAIL.

Their future constant companion joined the father and son, as might be expected, at Mooney's Tavern. He had no leave-takings to subdue the boisterous spirits in which he set out on an expedition that was to make a rich man of him. His brothers and sisters were married, and had lost all interest in him long ago. They were even glad that he would no longer be a daily disgrace to them. He was very grand with Mr. Gilman's money, and expected, of course, to drink to their success in a parting glass at Mooney's. He had drank to it so often already that morning, that it was doubtful whether he would be fit to start on the journey. It had the effect of making him unusually good-natured, fortunately, so that he took Mr. Gilman's refusal with only the complacent remark, "more fool he." The stage did not make long stoppages so early in the day; away they drove again--the tavern, the post-office, the white meeting-house on the hill, disappearing in turn, and then the young traveller felt that home was really left behind.

Sam went to bed at Concord that night, wondering if New-York could be larger, or have handsomer houses, and what they were doing at home. It seemed as if months had passed since bidding them good-bye. Then came the novelty of a railroad, the hurried glimpse at Manchester and Lowell, with their tall piles of brick and mortar, the loud hiss of steam, and clanking of machinery. How busy and restless all the world began to seem, and how far off the eventless village life, which had till now been a world in itself.

Colcord did not let them lose a moment's time. He had found out on the journey, that no ship was to sail from Boston for more than a week. A week, he said, would give them a long start; as they had the money, they might as well push through to New-York, where whole columns of vessels were advertised.

The morning of the third day after leaving home, Sam found himself following his father and Colcord along the crowded wharves of this great city, going to secure their passage.

This was certainly very reasonable. Sam wondered, at the same time, what had made Colcord so suddenly cautious, and why they did not take him with them. However, he strolled along the wharves, where all was new to him; the inviting eating saloons, with their gayly-painted signs, the sailors in their blue and red shirts, and rolling gait, that came out and went into them, the tall warehouses of the ship-chandlers, with the piles of ropes, and what seemed to him rusty chains, and useless lumber, scattered about the lower floor. It was a bitter day, and seemed doubly cold and disagreeable in the absence of snow, which only was found in dirty and crumbling piles out on the wharves or along the edge of the frozen gutters. The signs creaked and clanked in the wind, that came sweeping with icy chillness from the river; and the bareheaded emigrants, women and children, that came trooping along the sidewalk, looked half frozen and disconsolate. Still it was new and wonderful, and so were the rows of vessels, schooners and brigs, that lined the docks, some receiving and others discharging their cargoes, with a hurry and bustle of drays, and creaking pulleys, and a flapping of the sail-like canvas advertisements, fixed to the mast, that told their destination, and their days of sailing. The black hulls and dirty decks did not look very inviting; but, of course, the wonderful Helen M. Feidler, did not in the least resemble such uncouth hulks as these!

How he did wish for Ben as he walked along, trying to shield his face from the wind, with nobody to ask a question of, or tell his discoveries and conjectures to! He wished for him more than ever when he inquired his way back to the lodging house, in which they had left their chests, and found his father had not yet returned. It was a cheap place of entertainment, and chosen by them because near the water. Sam did not think it nice nor comfortable in the uncarpeted sitting-room, scarcely any fire in the dirty stove, and nothing to look at but an old file of newspapers on the baize-covered table. But that was better than the bar-room and its unwelcome sights and sounds.

He expected his father every moment, and told the waiter so, when he asked him if they would have dinner. The afternoon came on, still lonely, dark and gloomy. He began to be anxious for fear they had lost their way, or perhaps been robbed, and carried out to sea,--he had heard of such things. Hungry, and tired and lonely, he laid down on the long, wooden settee, and fell asleep, dreaming that he saw his mother, and made her very happy by telling her that his father had resisted all Colcord's endeavors to get him to drink, and talked about her every time they were alone together.

It was very late--nearly midnight--before the men returned. They were quarrelling violently on the stairs, and poor Sam instantly knew that his father had again been led into temptation. He did not know until the next day what a misfortune this had proved. When his father awoke, haggard and sullen, it was to charge Colcord with having robbed him of every cent the pocket-book contained, more than half of all he possessed. Colcord's own poverty disproved this charge. Between them, there was just enough to take a steerage passage for the three, and paying their bill at the lodging house, but a few dollars were left.

They had not yet purchased the necessary tools and stores for their business; with the exception of a newly invented patent gold-washer, in which Mr. Gilman had rashly invested a third of the sum originally intended for their outfit, on their way to the wharves, there was nothing to rely upon when they should arrive out. Colcord tried to get him to exchange this for the less expensive picks and spades; but Mr. Gilman was stubborn and dogged, as he always was under the influence of strong drink, and insisted on what he considered a fortunate speculation.

It was in this way, after all his father's pride and spirit on leaving home, that Sam, with his two still unreconciled companions, was entered as a steerage passenger on one of those very vessels that he had considered so unpromising at first sight. He tried to write a cheerful letter home, the day of sailing, describing what he had seen, but saying as little as possible about his father, or the vessel, that he could not think of without disgust. It was indeed a comfortless prospect, to be shut up for months in that dreary-looking steerage, so dark and stifling, so crowded with human beings of every grade and country.

The same glowing description was given of the speed and safety of the "Swiftsure;" but Sam began to doubt even the merits of the Helen M. Feidler, when he read column after column, in which barks, schooners and brigs up for California, were advertised to possess every advantage that could possibly be desired. It was his first great lesson that promise and reality are by no means the same thing.

Boy as he was, and hopeful as he had always been, he sat down disconsolately on his father's chest, and tried to realize all that had befallen him. The place described in the advertisement as "large, roomy, well lighted and ventilated," seemed to him dark, crowded, and suffocating. The space between the rows of bunks, as the slightly built berths were called, was piled with chests and boxes, over which each new comer climbed, and fell, and stumbled along, venting their annoyance in oaths and imprecations. The air was damp, at the same time so close and heavy that he could scarcely breathe. A fear of stifling when night and darkness came, made him start up and rush on deck, while it was yet possible to do so. They had already moved out of the dock in tow of a small steamboat, that was to take them down the bay, and carry back the friends of the cabin passengers, who helped fill the decks. There was scarcely an inch of plank to stand upon, or an unobstructed path to any part of the ship. Water-casks, fresh provisions for the cabin table, crates of fowls, the cackle adding to the general uproar; chests, boxes and trunks of the passengers, and freight received up to the last moment, were scattered, piled and packed in what seemed hopeless confusion. If there was dreariness and heart-sinking in the steerage, the cabin made amends with its uproar and jollity. Every one seemed to be of Colcord's opinion, that too many parting glasses could not be, and wine and brandy flowed as freely as water.

It might have seemed a festival day to Sam, if the sun had shone and the shores been covered with summer foliage; but the sky was in those close racks of clouds, so often seen in winter, chilling the very sunlight to transient watery beams. Cakes of ice, dirty, huge and discolored, were floating in the bay, crashing against the puffing little steamboat, with every revolution of the wheel. No golden horizon could gild the chilliness of the whole scene, or make it promise brightness to come.

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